Sunlight smacks the wet leaves
at the topmost of the trees
and splinters into shards of glory
more colors than the eye can catch
a story of the sun sliding toward
heaven in an arc of triumph.
In a moment, a breath, the light
will bury my blues in a searing flash
pounding soft tissue into tears.
I should be back among the eaves
trading safety for freedom, from...?
The story goes on and I can almost
see my way-- the way back--the trail.
The story becomes a song sung by a ghost:
the lay is a tale of the track.
2002
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